


John by Sherlock (North by Northwest)

by jonnyluvssherlock



Series: Film/Book Crossover [4]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Murder, Fear of Discovery, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Moriarty is evil, Murder, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Past Drug Use, Past Torture, Polyamory, Spy - Freeform, american Molly, american greg, american sebastain, bottom!John, gregs relationships are complicated, hitchock crossover, north by northwest crossover, people aren't who they say they are, set in 1959, set in the USA, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyluvssherlock/pseuds/jonnyluvssherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suave, succesful New York advertising executive Sherlock Holmes finds himself, through a case of mistaken identity, embroiled in a web of intrigue and murder that takes him across the US to prove his innocence and to get a crime syndicate, looking for a lost microfilm, off his tail.  Along the way he meets John Watson who may be the best thing that ever happened to him, or the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i started this 3 years ago and. in fact i mentioned i was going to write it at Sherlock Seattle its first year. this fic will follow the film closely. of course Sherlock has certain skills Roger didn't so he will catch on to things a lot sooner. since first posting this fic i have changed as a writer a lot so i have re-edited it. there is new content and stuff i felt didn't fit has been deleted. i have completed the fic and just need my beta to return the chapter to me. i will hopeful have the whole fic posted in s couple of weeks.
> 
> also this is a johnlock fic with John as Eve, if you known the original story. i have changed a lot of John/Eve's backstory to fit him better.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission.

Sherlock wound his dark blue, striped cashmere scarf around his pale neck as he exited his office building. His secretary, Molly Hooper, struggled to keep up with his long strides, hurriedly writing quick short-hand notes of everything he said. Molly was young and effective at her work, as long as she didn’t talk too much. Plain, with mousy-brown hair most often pulled away from her face; she had a fondness for cardigans and cat broaches. She could never make Sherlock’s coffee right, but had, thankfully, gotten better at making tea. If Sherlock noticed Molly was struggling to keep up with him, he didn’t act like it. He kept his quick pace as they made their way to the curb, Molly trying not to stumble in her heels. He hailed a cab and put a Belfast clad arm out to stop Molly as she tried to climb in with him.

 

“That’s enough, Miss Hooper. You can type that last letter and be done for the day.”

 

She smiled at him, trying to not look as tired as she felt. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. See you tomorrow.”

 

He nodded and let the cab door slam shut.

 

Sherlock leaned back, his dark brunette curls brushing against the back of the seat and let himself enjoy the quick ride to his meeting. Two years ago he’d made the move from London to New York. In those two years, he had taken over his department at the ad agency. It had been exciting at first, putting his skill of reading people to work. For a while he had enjoyed the challenge, until he had realized that all of his clients wanted the same thing. He had been so bored lately that he had almost slipped up.

 

He knew Mycroft was watching his every move, even if he never saw him. He had done some checking and had discovered Mycroft had taken a job in the States as well. It had only taken a call to Mycroft’s club to get the information: boring.

 

The cab pulled up in front of the Plaza Hotel and Sherlock handed the cabbie a few bills before climbing out.

 

He found his party waiting for him in the Oak Room and put on the smile that people seemed to like to see. They talked business and Sherlock kept his forced smile in place, saying all the things he needed to impress his clients. Sherlock only half listened to the conversation because, really, he’d heard and said it so many times before. The other part of his brain was going over all of the things he had to do the next day, like firing Anderson. He was going to enjoy that.

 

Having finished his to-do list, Sherlock was trying not to think about hazy nights back in London where he would meet his friends in the back of illegal clubs to get high. He’d been clean two years; a necessity to keep his job. Despite how bored it made him, he needed to stay that way.

 

After a few more minutes of pretending that his clients were the most interesting people he had ever met, he realized he’d forgotten to have Molly cancel his morning appointment. He glanced at his watch. She should be at her desk for another ten minutes, if he could just get to a phone he would be just in time. He asked for his clients’ patience and they seemed happy to indulge him as he flagged down a bellboy he saw walking across the bar.

 

“I need to make a call. Would it be possible for me to use the one in here?”

 

“Of course, sir. Follow me.”

 

He nodded to his clients and followed the bellboy out. As he moved into the hall, two men came up on either side of him, each taking him by an arm. One pressed a gun against his ribs.

 

“You will walk between us and not say a word.” The tall blond man with a faint scar across his forehead whispered in his ear. Sherlock noted that he had an American accent, mostly found in the Pacific Northwest. He hadn’t been up to anything nefarious since he’d gotten to the States and wondered if this was Mycroft’s fault. The man was clearly ex-military, had seen combat, was now working as a hired gun, or perhaps as private security. Mycroft must have pissed off the wrong person and Sherlock was now paying the price.

 

“If I said you had the wrong brother, would you believe me?” He smirked, walking with his captors out the front door of the hotel.

 

“Quiet.” The man pulled him roughly to make him walk faster.

 

They walked him out to their car and put him in the back seat between them. Sherlock didn’t ask where they were going, he just paid attention to the streets they passed. He knew better than to fight what was happening. It was better to get some information before making his move. If this was Mycroft’s fault, then Sherlock was going to make him pay.

 

\-----

 

After an hour’s drive, they pulled up in front of an impressive but faded mansion in the countryside. Sherlock was escorted forcefully up to it. A surly-looking, middle-aged woman with red hair, wearing a maid uniform opened the door. The man with the scar had a short conversation with her while his cohort led Sherlock to a closed room.

 

Sherlock’s other captor was the kind of nondescript person who one would lose in a line up unless you were Sherlock and could see all the little details. The two moles on his neck and the fact that his hair was the color of pine. Sherlock took all the details in for when he would need them later.

 

“Is anyone in the library?” The blonde asked.

 

“No,” the woman called as she walked away and towards the stairs to the second floor.

 

Moments later, Sherlock was locked inside alone, giving him a chance to look around. It was a fair sized room with books from floor to ceiling. A fire was going and in front of it there was a sofa and an armchair. A desk sat in front of a large picture window, the room’s main light source. He found mail on the desk for a Lester Townsend. Some of the mail seemed to have been forwarded from the UN. There was also a disconnected telephone sitting on the desk. Out the window he could see the second man from the car walking through the yard. 

 

Sherlock was trying to open the window when the door unlocked and a man in a black suit and greased-back, black hair walked in. He seemed small, though Sherlock could see he was around five ten. The man smiled at Sherlock and shut the door behind himself. 

 

“Good evening.” He said in a clear Irish accent. The man stepped further into the room and Sherlock stepped away from the window. They half circled the desk until they each stood at one end of it. The man smiled again and Sherlock could see that the man was dangerous. There was something about his eyes; they seemed dead and a bit manic. 

 

“You’re not what I expected.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and waited for further enlightenment.

 

“You’re taller, more put together but I see you just as clearly.” The man stepped away from the desk and sat on the sofa that was in front of the fireplace.

 

“May I ask what I’m being accused of?”

 

“Games. Must we?” He talked like he was bored, but his expression said he was enjoying himself.

 

Sherlock leaned his weight against the desk, trying his best not to seem threatened. “Not that I mind playing whatever game you’ve cooked up, but I have tickets to a concert tonight and I’d rather not miss it.” Sherlock looked at his watch. “Is there any chance we’ll be finished in the next half-hour?”

 

“You are quite the actor.” The man said, his smile widening. 

 

The door opened and the blonde with the scar stepped in. He smiled at the Irish man 

 

“Moran, you didn’t tell me how funny Mr. Knight is.” 

 

Moran walked behind the sofa, stood next to the fireplace, and lit a cigarette.

 

“Knight?” Sherlock stood up straight and moved closer to the fire while keeping a good distance between himself and the Irishman.

 

Moran and his boss smiled at each other.

 

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name isn’t Knight. It’s Holmes.”

 

Moran laughed and his boss’s smile widened. 

 

“Is that what you’re calling yourself this week?”

 

Sherlock sighed at the stupidity of the moment.

 

The door to the library opened and an attractive pale woman with dark hair looked in at them. Sherlock couldn’t read her at all, which he found troubling.

 

She scanned the room and let her eyes fall on the Irishman. “The guests are here.”

 

“I’ll be right in.” The Irishman said, his eyes not leaving Sherlock.

 

She smiled, her eyes falling on Sherlock one last time before she closed the door without another word.

 

“Now, let’s get down to business.” The Irishman said, smiling in an unfriendly way.

 

Sherlock stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back, listening intently.

 

“It’s simple; I’d like you to tell me how much you know about our arrangements and how you came by your information.” His smile widened into something predatory. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

Sherlock understood what the man was saying. Tell me everything I want to know or I’ll kill you. Sherlock had the idea that even if he told this man what he wanted, he would still die.

 

Something glinted in the man’s eyes as if he could see how much Sherlock understood of the situation he was in. “You are quick, so much better than the others. I think if you give me what I want, I can guarantee the opportunity of surviving the evening.”

 

“Opportunity….” Sherlock laughed out loud, despite the fact that he might be about to die. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a situation as interesting as this. I must thank you, I was getting quite bored, but really this must end. I don’t have what you want because I’m not who you think I am. You’re too stupid to realize you’re wrong and so we’re stuck. You’re going to do what you must and I am going to escape.” Sherlock smiled, “I can’t say it’s been a pleasant evening, but thank you for the distraction.”

 

The man on the sofa’s face seemed to burn. He held out his hand. Moran put a piece of paper in it. “Are you going to deny all this?”

 

Sherlock held his hand out for the paper, which the man gave him. It was a list of hotel reservations under the name Henry Knight, the latest: The Plaza Hotel in New York. Sherlock had the vague recollection of someone calling the name Knight in the Oak Room before he had tried to make his call. Had he raised his hand at the wrong time and they thought he was Knight? It was laughable. 

 

He read the rest of the list. It said Knight’s next stop was the Ambassador East in Chicago in two days and then Rapid City South Dakota.

 

“I could explain to you where you went wrong in your thinking, but I have a feeling you would refuse to see the truth. I could show you my IDs, but you would call them fakes. Even calling the British Embassy would do me no good.”

 

“We can agree on some things at least.”

 

“Well then, shall we get on with the evening?” Sherlock folded the paper he had been given and put it in his suit pocket.

 

The Irishman stood with his face hard but still smiling. He looked past angry. “Moran, fix Mr. Knight a drink before he leaves.” The man left, letting the library door slam shut after him.

 

“It wouldn’t stop you if I said I wasn’t much of a drinker?”

 

Moran smiled and crossed the room, opening a cabinet. “Scotch, Rye, Bourbon or Vodka?”

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

The library door opened and the man who had helped abduct him from the hotel entered with another man.

 

“Bourbon.” Moran said in a haughty voice.

 

The two men grabbed Sherlock and held him down on the sofa. Sherlock was unimpressed. He struggled against them but it was three against one and they quickly had the open bottle in his mouth. He didn’t know how much he drank, just that the world slowly got fuzzy and he could no longer fight back.

 

\-----

 

When Sherlock woke, it was dark and cold and he was sitting up against something hard. He listened carefully and heard the sound of the ocean, feet walking on something hard like pavement, and wind. He slowly moved his fingers and found them to be numb but moveable. He opened his eyes and, while he was dizzy, he could see. He saw that he was in a car, a car that had the keys in the ignition. 

 

Sitting next to him, unaware that he was awake, was one of his captors. He moved to attack but the man noticed, so Sherlock went for his nose and broke it. He heard the crunch, then kicked. He kicked at the man until he heard him fall out of the car. Sherlock started the car, put it into gear, and drove. 

 

He never did remember what happened on that drive. Blurry images of cars and trees were all he could ever recall. What he does remember is being taken in by the police and calling Molly in the middle of the night to get him his lawyer.

 

\-----

 

The next morning, Sherlock exited the police station with Molly, his lawyer Greg Lestrade, and a loss of dignity. He had a terrible hangover and all he wanted to do was go back to his flat and sleep for the next week. The two detectives who followed them out nodded in their direction.

 

“Are you sure you’re up for this Mr. Holmes?” Molly asked, pulling her jacket on. He stared for a moment at the cat broach on her pink cardigan, feeling the effects of the alcohol still in his system. Then he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. 

 

“Yes, I’d rather know.” 

 

She nodded and they all climbed into Lestrade’s car. Sherlock was grateful Molly had found his overcoat and scarf before coming to meet him and that she had brought tea in a thermos for him. What Americans considered tea was abominable.

 

Sherlock sat in the back while Molly and Lestrade chatted in the front.

 

“Thank you so much for coming to the rescue, Mr. Lestrade.” Molly smiled up at him, trying her best to look coy.

 

Lestrade laughed, “With Sherlock as my client I have to be ready for anything.”

 

“My brother pays you well enough to be ready for anything.” Sherlock scowled out the window and sipped his tea.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” Molly gasped, sounding scandalized.

 

“It’s alright Miss Hooper; I’ve known Sherlock long enough to know that sarcasm is how he says thank you.”

 

Sherlock looked over at them as they made eyes at each other for the tenth time that morning.

 

“Lestrade, just ask the woman out; she’s going to say yes. Please, for all our sakes.” Sherlock sighed, looking out the window and ignoring the sounds of complaints and denial from the front seat. “I do warn you Miss. Hooper, my brother has plans for Lestrade, so if you don’t like to share, pick someone else.”

 

Both Lestrade and Molly blushed. Sherlock leaned back, enjoying the silence while he finished his tea.

 

Lestrade’s car pulled up in front of what Sherlock now knew was Townsend manor, behind them the detective’s sedan came to a stop. They all got out and stood staring at each other waiting for someone to move. Sherlock looked at the detectives, asking them if they were really going to make the man who had been kidnapped knock on his kidnapper’s door. It seemed they were, so with a great sigh Sherlock mounted the steps and banged on the door. He felt Molly at his right elbow fidgeting and whispering with Lestrade. The two detectives had joined them on the porch and stood at his left elbow, silent and waiting. 

 

The surly looking woman he had seen the night before opened the door. “Yes?”

 

Sherlock smiled his best fake smile. “Remember me?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

His smile dropped, “Good.” He pushed past her and made his way to the library while the detectives talked to her. First he checked the liquor cabinet, which was now empty. The sofa was clean where the bourbon had been forced down his throat, the phone was hooked up again, and when he tried the window, it opened without any trouble.

 

Sherlock looked up to see Molly and Lestrade watching him from the doorway. “Oh, they’re smart. The evidence is gone.”

 

“Or maybe it was never here.” One of the detectives said, pushing his way into the room.

 

“Sherlock, darling!”

 

Sherlock looked up to see the pale woman from the night before walking into the room. She walked right up to him and took hold of one his hands.

 

“We were so worried about you. Did you get home all right? Things got a bit out of hand last night,” she smiled. “Someone should have been watching how many cocktails you had. The party was a bit dull; I drank a bit too much myself. Lester feels terrible for not getting you a ride home.” She turned her face to Molly. 

 

“Sherlock, you didn’t tell me you have a girl.” She beamed at Molly, letting go of Sherlock’s hand in favor of Molly’s.

 

“I’m his assistant.” Molly squeaked.

 

The woman nodded knowingly.

 

Sherlock watched her. He could read nothing off her clothing, her expression, or her gestures. For the first time ever, he had met someone he was unable to read. He would have found it interesting if it wasn’t a hindrance to what he was doing.

 

Sherlock walked over to the window and looked outside. It was clear the police weren’t going to believe him. Lestrade spoke for Sherlock, but the woman continued on with her story and, in the end, Lestrade paid Sherlock’s two-dollar fine.

 

Sherlock realized this avenue of investigation was done, but he still had other options open to him. When the police were done with them, Lestrade drove Sherlock and Molly back to New York.

 

Sherlock had Lestrade drop them off at the Plaza. The list in Sherlock’s pocket, which stated which hotels Knight supposedly was staying at, said he was going to be at the Plaza for at least one more night. If he could meet the man, he could put this all to rest.

 

\-----

 

“I don’t understand why I’m here?” Molly asked as they exited the elevator with their appropriated key for Henry Knight’s room.

 

“You lend a certain air of respectability.” Sherlock said, shrugging.

 

Molly smiled, blushing slightly.

 

Sherlock lead them to door seven-nine-six, there was a maid at the next room that Sherlock ignored. Molly looked on nervously as Sherlock unlocked the door, glancing around them in a guilty way. The door opened and they were stepping through when they heard someone behind them.

 

“Just a minute please.”

 

Sherlock turned to see the maid who held a stack of towels over one arm. “Yes?” he asked.

 

“Will you be wanting me to change your bed sir?”

 

Sherlock smiled at her while he pushed Molly into the room. “Not right now.”

 

“I was just asking because the bed doesn’t seem like it’s been slept in and I was wondering if I should be changing the linens still?”

 

“Thank you very much for your interest.”

 

She nodded and walked back to the room she had been working on.

 

Sherlock stepped into the room and let the door close; his first thought was that the maid had thought he was Knight, so he must look like Knight. Molly was standing just inside the room holding her purse and looking anxious. When didn’t that woman look anxious?

 

Sherlock walked around her and looked at the room. Two single beds, neatly made, a desk with paper and pen on it, the bathroom had a toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream and a razor. Newspapers sitting on a chair, suitcase on the floor with dirty clothing in it, making the room look lived it but also a bit staged, like someone had worked to make it look like it did. The one useful thing Sherlock found was a photo of the man who had ordered his kidnapping in it. He put that in his pocket and kept looking.

 

Just as Sherlock was looking under the beds, the room’s doorbell rang. Molly looked at him, clear panic in her eyes. “Relax,” he told her and got up to answer the door.

 

“Valet,” the man held the suit up in front of himself. “Should I hang it up in the closet, Mr. Knight?”

 

“Please,” Sherlock smiled, waiting for the man to pass him before letting it drop.

 

The valet crossed the room and hung the suit up in the closet. Sherlock walked close behind him. 

 

“There we are.”

 

“When did I give you that suit?” Sherlock asked, smiling over at Molly like he was a very forgetful person.

 

The valet smiled, “last night around six.”

 

“Did I personally give it to you?”

 

“No, you called down like you always do. Anything wrong?”

 

“No, no just curious.” Sherlock’s smile faded.

 

The valet seemed to sense the shift. “Ok. Nice meeting you Mr. Knight.” 

 

Sherlock waited until the door shut, then he opened the closet and pulled out the suit.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I don’t think anyone in this hotel has actually seen Knight.” Sherlock took off his coat, scarf, and jacket and tried to put on the jacket, but it was too short in the arms by several inches. He pulled out the trousers and held them up in front of himself, they were also too short.

 

“This Mr. Knight could only be five six or five seven. How they could have mistaken me for him is beyond me.”

 

As Sherlock pulled his own clothing back on, the phone began to ring. Sherlock ignored it at first, but it wouldn’t stop, so, finally, he sat on the edge of one of the beds and picked it up.

 

“Hello?”

 

Molly sat on the bed opposite him and watched him.

 

“It’s good to find you in Mr. Knight.”

 

Sherlock recognized the accent of Moran at once and froze. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not Mr. Knight?”

 

“Of course not.” The man said in an amused voice. “You answer his telephone and you live in his hotel room, and yet you’re not him. Nevertheless, we are pleased to find you in.”

 

The phone clicked and Sherlock realized what it meant. “We need to leave Molly.”

 

“Are you done looking around?”

 

“I have to be, we’re about to have company.” 

 

Molly’s face blanched and Sherlock took her by the arm. They left the room and headed for the elevator. He pressed the down button and waited. As the elevator going down opened and Sherlock and Molly entered, so did two others. Sherlock looked over to see Moran and the other man who had tried to kidnap him the day before.

 

The elevator door shut with them and seven other people inside, packing them all in together. Sherlock looked at Molly, then gestured at the two men next to him. 

 

Her eyes widened. Molly looked forward at the elevator door for a moment, then turned to the two men standing a bit too close to Sherlock.

 

“Excuse me, but you gentlemen aren’t really trying to kill my boss, are you?” She asked as sweetly and as innocently as possible and all eyes in the elevator were suddenly on the two men.

 

They looked at her indifferently and then they looked around them. Moran smiled and began to laugh. He turned to his partner who started laughing as well and suddenly the whole elevator was laughing except Sherlock and Molly.

 

When the elevator stopped, people were still laughing. The doors opened and Sherlock pushed Moran and his partner back.

 

“Ladies first.” He glared at them and then helped Molly out of the elevator. She used her body to block the exit while the other ladies made their way off. Sherlock was already dashing across the lobby. He had one last option and that was the UN. If he could get there and confront Lester Townsend, if that was whom he had met last night - and he very much doubted it was - perhaps he could get the answers he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Using the name Henry Knight, Sherlock was able to get an appointment with Townsend. He didn’t know what he expected; for the Irish man to appear, making him feel like a fool, or like he was going mad; or the stranger who actually greeted him. 

 

The real Lester Townsend was middle aged with salt and pepper hair. Kind faced, soft spoken, and American. 

 

“You’re Lester Townsend who lives in Glen Cove?” Sherlock asked, assessing the man.

 

The man smiled and nodded. “That’s me, do I know you?”

 

“It seems someone has been impersonating you. I was at your house last night and was introduced to a man who claimed to be Lester Townsend.”

 

The smile on Mr. Townsend’s face dropped. “I haven’t used that house regularly since my wife died a few years ago.” He paused, leading Sherlock over towards a set of windows. “The gardener and his wife live on the grounds to keep the house up.” He paused again, running a hand through his hair. “Please explain what happened so I can understand what my house is being used for.”

 

Sherlock tried to explain what had happened to him. The kidnapping and interview in his library. Sherlock was just showing him the photo he had taken from Knight’s room when Mr. Townsend gasped, his eyes widening as he sagged against Sherlock, who tried to support him. They slowly slid to the floor and Sherlock flipped Townsend over to find a knife in his back. Gasps and shouts started up as Sherlock pushed the body away from himself. Sherlock saw who he thought was Moran rushing off around a corner, out of sight. 

A photo was taken of Sherlock. He knew how this looked. People would assume he had killed Townsend. He had claimed to have been kidnaped by the man the night before and here he was with the man dead at his feet. Sherlock ran away as the instinct to flee kicked in. He made it to Grand Central Station, but the place was swarming with police who all knew what he looked like. He had purchased himself a pair of sunglasses and hoped that if he pulled his coat collar up it would block most of his face.

 

He was in a phone booth staring at a phone trying to decide if he should call Mycroft. His brother could most likely make this all go away, but that would mean admitting he needed help, and Sherlock would be damned if he was going to concede to needing help. 

 

He finally gave up on the phone without ever picking it up and made his way to the ticket counter. He had to acknowledge that his years of avoiding detection while under the influence were coming in handy. He spotted several plain-clothed cops, just like he’d done in the bars and clubs in London. Sherlock strode up to the ticket window and, for a brief moment, he thought the man had recognized him.

 

“Yes?” The agent asked.

 

“Give me a bedroom on the Twentieth Century.” Sherlock checked his watch. He had five minutes. If he could catch this train, he could get out of New York before things got hot.

 

“I think they’re all sold out. You can always go coach.”

 

Sherlock looked at him as if his existence was annoying. “When’s the next train?”

 

“Nothing till ten.” The agent looked at him a little harder. “I can call them and see?”

 

“Please do.” The agent moved behind a wall and Sherlock left. He had been recognized after all.

 

Sherlock hurried through the train station and onto his train. It would be problematic without a ticket but he would manage. He took a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings, looking out the window of the train. He could see the police on the platform rushing about.

 

Sherlock looked up from the window and saw coming towards him down the corridor a short, stocky, tan, blond man with a military haircut; wearing a cream-colored turtleneck jumper, jeans and dark glasses. The man removed his glasses and looked at Sherlock as they bumped right into each other.

 

They both looked at each other and the man nodded at him as an apology. Sherlock felt warmth pool in his body. It was a wonderful feeling and Sherlock had to stop himself from leaning into the man to get more if it.

 

Sherlock stepped to the left to let him pass, but the man stepped left as well. He looked up at Sherlock, the edge of a smile on his lips. The height difference was remarkable, the man’s head only came up to Sherlock’s shoulder, giving him a better look at the man’s compact yet firm body.

 

As they both stepped right and bumped into each other, Sherlock felt the man’s weight against him and wondered how it would feel under him. The man looked up at him with a knowing smile. They stared at each other, their eyes locked for over thirty seconds.

 

The moment was ruined by the sound of the police. Sherlock opened the door behind him and fell into a room full of luggage. He heard the man outside tell the police he’d gotten off the train. A minute passed and then Sherlock composed himself and stepped out. The man was standing alone, looking at his ticket.

 

Sherlock looked at him. He took professional pride in being able to read a person in seconds, yet this man had fooled him. He had taken him for ex-military; most likely going home, closeted homosexual, or at least homosexual tendencies if he went by the way the man had looked at him. Dull and boring. He had not expected the man to help him. Upon a second look, Sherlock could see he was an attractive man, someone who liked excitement, perhaps danger. The word attractive kept coming up in Sherlock’s head, and the way the man licked his lips didn’t help.

 

“Thank you, expired visa.” 

 

“Quite all right.” The man nodded and walked away.

 

Sherlock watched him, noting that the man was British, which was something he hadn’t detected, he was slipping. The man looked good walking away. He limped slightly, but the jeans he wore hugged him in all the right places. If Sherlock weren’t on the run, he would be tempted to chat him up. Still, at least he knew if he was in trouble there was someone on the train he could turn to for help.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock had avoided the conductors for the first hour or so by hiding in bathrooms and luggage compartments. It was getting to be dinnertime as he made his way to the dining car, more to blend in than anything.

 

The steward led him into the dining area and Sherlock looked from table to table. They were mostly crowded. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to sit alone. Sherlock was led to a table and looked down to see the man from the corridor sitting with his back against a wall. Sherlock looked at his options. He could sit across from the man and chat or sit across from the empty seat next to him and worry someone would sit down there and he would have to talk to them. He chose the devil he knew.

 

The man smiled at him over his teacup, setting it down on its saucer.

 

“Cocktail before dinner?” The steward asked, pushing Sherlock’s chair in.

 

“Pot of tea.” Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the man sitting across from him, enjoying the fact that, with his dark glasses on, he would see more of the man than the man would see of him.

 

“Just a pot of hot water, thank you.” The man looked away from Sherlock to smile at the steward before he turned away. As he turned back, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“There tea is terrible, but I bring my own. Aren’t you lucky?” He reached into the pocket of a jacket sitting on the chair next to him and pulled out a small tin of tea.

 

“How very British of you.” Sherlock stared at the tin with envy. It had been so long since he had had proper tea. Mycroft wasn’t the kind to send care packages. 

 

Sherlock took a moment to mark something on the menu as the waiter arrived with the water. The man opened it and put two tea bags in as Sherlock handed the waiter his order.

 

The man was watching him - smiling at him - drinking his tea and ignoring the half eaten pie sitting on the plate in front of him.

 

“Do I look familiar to you?” Sherlock leaned forward and steepled his fingers under his chin.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Like we’ve met before?”

 

“Yes.” The man poured Sherlock his tea and pushed the sugar closer to him. 

 

Sherlock dropped in two cubes.

 

“I have that effect on people, something about my face.”

 

The man leaned towards him. “It’s a nice face.”

 

Sherlock smirked and took off his dark glasses, giving the man more of his face to look at. “Korea or Egypt?”

 

The man leaned back. “How did you….”

 

“You’re ex-British military, recently returned home, but America isn’t your home, so you’ve got family or someone important here you need to see. You were stationed somewhere warm, saw heavy combat, and injured your right leg at one point. It healed, but it bothers you sometimes, making you limp slightly. You miss the military, which is the reason you keep your hair short, so I would say the injury to your leg was severe enough to end your career.”

 

Sherlock waited for the insults to fly. It was the same everywhere, either in London or New York. People thought what he did was a trick or they hated him for being right. He wanted this man to like him, mostly because he found him attractive. On the other hand, finding someone attractive was dangerous; besides, Sherlock was on the run. This was no time for romance.

 

“That was brilliant.”

 

Sherlock stared at the man, feeling warmth and lust pool in his body. “Really.”

 

“Yes. But you know that.”

 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

 

The man’s face faltered. “What do they normally say?”

 

“Piss off.” Something surprising happened behind the man’s eyes and he was suddenly offering his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and they shook hands.

 

“John Watson.”

 

“Victor Trevor.”

 

The man smiled at him. “Let’s try that again with your real name.” He nodded his head towards a newspaper with Sherlock’s photo and the caption UN Killer.

 

Sherlock grabbed the paper and turned it over. “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.”

 

“How come?” Sherlock tucked the paper into his jacket and studied John.

 

“I told you, you have a nice face.” He picked up his tea and sipped it.

 

“That’s it?” Sherlock’s food arrived, but he ignored it in favor of the tea, which was wonderful - just the way he liked it. He had missed proper tea.

 

“It’s going to be a long night.” John smiled at him, “I don’t like the book I brought with me.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock, who wasn’t always the quickest when it came to romance, understood what it was John that was telling him. It had been so long. Since London, and back then it had always been muddled with drugs. Trying to find a partner in a new city when you were trying to keep clean was impossible since it seemed the only places one could find gay sex, were in underground clubs where the drug scene was very alive. Now, here was John, who thought he was brilliant and good-looking, who had saved him from the cops; John, who loved danger and kept tea in his damn jacket pocket because he only drank British tea.

 

John pulled a cigarette pack out of his pocket and looked at Sherlock as if waiting. 

 

Sherlock fished around in his pocket and found his matchbook and lit John’s cigarette. He saw John looking at the book and held it out for him to see.

 

“My trademark, SH”

 

“Sherlock Holmes, sort of looks like your telling people to be quiet.”

 

“I am.” He took the matchbook back and put it in his pocket. “I’d invite you back to my bedroom, but I don’t even have a ticket.”

 

John drew on his cigarette and lets out a long puff of smoke. “Drawing-room E, car thirty-nine-oh-one.” John smirked and then his eyes cast out the window. “We seem to be making an unscheduled stop, I just saw two men getting out of a police car as we pulled into the station.” John turned back to look at Sherlock. “They weren’t smiling.”

 

Sherlock put his glasses back on and looked over his shoulder out the window. Two detectives were making their way into the train. Sherlock looks at John, who pulled out his wallet, put a few bills on the table and walked away. Sherlock took three hurried bites of food and swallowed it with the rest of his tea. He threw some money on the table and followed John out of the dining car.

 

\-----

 

John’s sleeper car was cramped, clearly not made for two grown men to share comfortably. Sherlock was made even more uncomfortable by his resting place, closed into the upper berth. He was too tall for the cramped space and, with his coat on, it was too hot. 

 

John, he supposed, was sitting on the berth below reading his book, waiting for the police to come by as he had told Sherlock he would be.

 

Sherlock heard a faint buzzing and waited. He could half hear John getting up and moving around. There were voices joining John’s, asking for his name. Sherlock listened to the conversation. From what he gathered someone had seen John talking to him in the dining car. The police tried to frighten John by talking about the crime Sherlock was supposed to have committed. They then asked to come in and John let them. Sherlock stopped breathing as the police poked around in the loo and the closet. They seemed convinced John was alone and the door closed.

 

Sherlock waited for the berth to be opened. He was overheating and started to feel like he was running out of air. When it finally opened, John was there by his face.

 

“Hello there,” John murmured, smiling at him.

 

“Why are you so good to me?” Sherlock asked, before he could stop himself.

 

“Shall I come up there and tell you why?” John smirked, then shook his head.  
“Everything’s alright.”

 

‘That was anything but alright.” Sherlock said as he pulled himself out and onto shaking legs.

 

John laughed

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing, sorry, it’s just, after surviving a war, it seems a bit silly to me, not being able to handle a compartment.” 

 

John shrugged it off, but Sherlock knew he was serious and felt a bit silly about being so overwhelmed.

 

John came toward him and put his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Sherlock’s chest. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. For me, being stuck in a berth for a few minutes would be nothing, but to someone else, it would be a big deal. Different perspectives.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Less talking, more kissing.” They both smiled and let their lips meet for the first time. John was a good kisser, soft, experienced. Knowing when to lead and when to let Sherlock take over.

 

“Have you ever been with a man before?” Sherlock thought John had, but he could be wrong. He’d been wrong about John several times that night.

 

John nods. “It’s been a while. I was the top for a while, but, these days, I prefer the opposite.”

 

“So, if I wanted to take this all the way, be inside you, you would be up for that?”

 

John shivered as the train started up again, causing them to bump into a wall, John pressed against it by Sherlock’s weight. “You can’t tie me up or engage in any rough play, but I would enjoy having sex with you.”

 

“By rough play, you mean spanking, or rough sex in general?”

 

“I don’t mind the sex getting a little rough as long as it’s what we both want, but I won’t have a hand raised to me.”

 

Sherlock lifted his hand and touched John’s cheek. “I wouldn’t want to hit you anyways. That’s not my idea of fun.”

 

John smiled shyly. “I have Vaseline and condoms in my suitcase.” 

 

Sherlock released him and watched him bend down to get his bag open. John shuffled around for a few minutes and then placed the items on the table next to the lower berth.

 

“Help me pull it out.” Together, they turned the lower berth into a bed. It wasn’t very large, but they would make it work.

 

They stood again, side-by-side, just looking at each other. Sherlock reached for John, kissing him softly despite the fact that he was hard and desperate to be inside him. For some reason, now that he had John so close, he sensed a fragile side to John. He felt the need to coax him out of the shell of his jumper.

 

He started lifting the hem of the jumper when John grabbed his hand to stop him. “Something wrong?” Sherlock asked.

 

John gave him a shaky smile. “I have scars.” John paused and looked down. “They’re pretty disgusting.”

 

“Don’t think like that.” 

 

John let him lift the jumper. John’s chest was a topography of disfigurements; he had been tortured by the look of it. Sherlock reached out his hand and ran his fingers down John’s chest.

 

John shivered and looked up at Sherlock with a look of desperation.

 

“How long has it been since someone touched you?”

 

“Too long. Anyone else who saw me got turned off.”

 

They crushed their mouths together as Sherlock led John to the bed. He stripped them of their clothing and they lay down. It took a few minutes for them to get comfortable. Once they were both settled in, Sherlock picked up the lube and started opening John. It had been a long time since he had been this close to someone, and even longer since he was sober when he did it.

 

“I’ve been thinking… it’s not safe for you to be roaming around Chicago. You’ll be picked up by the police the moment you show your face.”

 

“And it’s such a nice face.” Sherlock teased while adding a third finger.

 

John gasped and clenched down. “I think it would be better if you stayed in my hotel room while I locate the man you’re looking for and bring him to you.”

 

“I shouldn’t get you involved. Too dangerous.” He kissed John to shut him up, secretly happy that John wanted to help him.

 

“I’m a big boy.” John whispered into his mouth.

 

“In all the right places.” He squeezed John’s arse with one hand.

 

“This is ridiculous; you see that, don’t you? We’ve only just met.” John said, looking at Sherlock as if imploring him to understand something he himself couldn’t.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock added a fourth finger.

 

“How do I know you aren’t a murderer?”

 

Sherlock leaned down so his mouth was right next to John’s ear. “You don’t.”

 

“Maybe that’s the thrill of it?” 

 

“Maybe.” Sherlock removed his fingers and reached for a condom. John helped him roll it on and Sherlock settled between John’s legs. He slowly seated himself in John until he bottomed out. He had forgotten how good this could feel.

 

John threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and kissed the side of his face. “You feel so good.”

 

Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s neck. He took John slowly until John was trembling with the need to come. Then, he wrapped his hand around John’s cock and, with two pulls, John came. He followed him over soon after and then enjoyed the feeling of laying close to another body.

 

In the middle of the night, he was woken by the door opening and he looked up, expecting trouble. Instead, he saw John giving him an apologetic look.

 

“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.” He lifted a glass of scotch. He stripped his clothing off and lay back down. They split the drink and then Sherlock watched while John slept curled around him.

 

\--------

 

The train arrived in Chicago in the morning, John departed with Sherlock dressed as a porter. They passed several police officers and none of them noticed them. As they headed into the station, Sherlock nudged John with his elbow.

 

“Which one has my clothing?”

 

“The smaller one.”

 

When they had woken, they had made a plan for John to call the hotel Henry Knight was staying in and ask him for a meeting. Sherlock would change in the bathroom and then they would head to the meeting spot.

 

Sherlock changed quickly, then waited to see John exit the phone booth. When John looked up at him, he gestured with his head to the entrance of the station. John nodded and followed his instructions. They met behind a pillar next to the exit.

 

“Did you talk to him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He’ll see you, but not at the hotel. He’ll meet you somewhere else?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“I wrote it down for you.” 

 

John handed him a slip of paper with a place and time. As they headed out of the station, John explained how he could get there and what to expect. John took another slip of paper and wrote the name of the hotel he was staying at for Sherlock. They stood close together as John talked and Sherlock noticed him looking more and more forlorn.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing.” John shook his head.

 

“You seem tense.”

 

John looked up at him and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then he seemed to change his mind. “You should go before the police find you.”

 

“We’ll see each other again.”

 

John nodded.

 

“Thank you John, for all you have done.” He gently squeezed John’s arm.

 

“You have to go.”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

\--------

 

Sherlock took the bus out of town and was let out next to a dirt road that ran between two farms. There was no one else in sight. He checked his watch. He had a little time before Knight was supposed to meet him. 

 

He stood there for ten minutes when a low hum filled his ears. He looked up the highway both ways but saw nothing. The humming grew louder and louder until he looked up and saw a low-flying biplane approaching him. He watched as it came closer and closer. It seemed to be headed straight for him, dropping altitude until it was only ten feet off the ground.

 

Sherlock stood transfixed and only at the last minute dropped to the ground to stop himself from being decapitated. He scrambled to his feet and watched as the plane did a quick loop and headed back towards him. Sherlock ran and stood behind a telephone pole. The plane veered right and two loud cracks filled the air as the plane shot at him.

 

He looked around, realizing there was nowhere to hide. The plane was turning towards him again. In the distance, there was a cornfield. It wouldn’t offer any real protection, but it might hide him a bit. He ran into it and dove down and, after making sure he was in a dense section, he lay down on the ground. As he lay there, he smelled something foul and realized they were spraying some kind of dust over him. He coughed, then started to choke. Tears ran down his face as Sherlock grasped that the dust was poisonous. He tried to lay still, but the dust was too powerful. He staggered to his feet and stumbled out of the cornfield, gasping for air.

 

Down the highway he could see a truck headed towards him. He rushed into the road and waved his hands above his head. The truck came to a stop, but it was too late, the plane was on him already. It flew straight into the bed of the truck, causing a small explosion. The driver jumped free and pulled Sherlock away.

 

“It might blow!” The driver yelled

 

The two of them ran down the road. A car coming from the other direction stopped and motioned for them to come over.

 

A man leaned out the diver side window. “What happened?”

 

“Crazy plane flew right into me.” The truck driver shook his head.

 

Sherlock sweet-talked the driver into giving him a ride to town. He curled up in the back next to the truck driver and thought through what had just happened. It was clear someone wanted him dead. Was it Henry Knight, or was something else at play? For now, he would go to John’s hotel to regroup and think of his next plan of action.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock reached the Ambassador Hotel and made a beeline for the concierge’s desk. The clerk eyes him with distaste and put on the fakest smile Sherlock had ever seen.

 

“How can I help you?”

 

“I need the room number for Mr. Knight.”

 

“Knight.” The man looked away to consult his files. “I believe he checked out.”

 

“Checked out?” Sherlock leaned over the desk to see the paper.

 

The clerk covered it and glared at him. “He checked out at seven-ten this morning.”

 

Sherlock felt a weight drop into his stomach. John had called Knight after nine that morning, which meant he had either lied to him, or John had been tricked into thinking he had talked to Knight when it was really someone else. Sherlock prayed it was the latter.

 

“He left a forwarding address, Hotel Sheraton-Johnson, Rapid City, South Dakota.”

 

Sherlock nodded numbly. He crumpled the note John had handed him at the train station into a ball and let it drop to the floor. He was reaching for the second note he had been given when he noticed a man limping across the lobby. Sherlock stepped behind a pillar and observed John make his way slowly towards the elevator. He watched the floor indicator until it stopped. Sherlock turned back to the clerk who was eyeing him suspiciously. 

 

“One more thing.”

 

The clerk nodded.

 

“Mr. John Watson is expecting me, room four-something-or other. I’ve forgotten the number. Would you mind?”

 

The clerk looked down at his file again. “Four-sixty-three.”

 

“Ta.” He hurried towards the elevator as quickly as he could without looking more suspicious then he already did.

 

\-----

 

He approached the door to four-sixty-three, looked up and down the corridor to see if he had been followed. The last few days had made him paranoid. He rang the buzzer and waited. John opened the door and looked at him. Sherlock saw shock first, followed quickly by overwhelming relief. A wide grin of absolute joy spread across John’s face. All the anger Sherlock had been building up inside him vanished and he felt terrible for even thinking John would betray him.

 

John took hold of his hand and pulled him into the room. They stood just inside, crammed together in the small entrance way.

 

“Surprised?” Sherlock smiled back at him.

 

John nodded and reached up to touch Sherlock’s face. “Yes.”

 

“No getting rid of me, is there?”

 

John laughed and pulled Sherlock against him burying his face in Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock put a hand on the back of John’s head, the other on his shoulder, and held him against him. He didn’t care if John had lied to him. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, he had fallen for the former soldier. 

 

“I need a drink.” Sherlock sighed, feeling the weight of the past few days hit him all at once.

 

John pulled himself back so he could speak. “I have some scotch.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Just water.”

 

John nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. Sherlock stepped further into the hotel room and looked around. The room was a decent size with a queen bed in the middle of it. He had just sat down in the chair at the desk when John reappeared at his elbow with a glass of water.

 

“How did it go today?” John sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards him.

 

“He didn’t show up.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Funny, isn’t it?”

 

“Why funny?”

 

“After the detailed directions he gave you on the phone.” He studied John, looking for any tells that he was lying.

 

John leaned back and looked thoughtful. “Maybe I copied them down wrong.”

 

“You sent me to the right place all right.”

 

Sherlock watched the color drain from John’s face as John met his eyes.

 

“Why don’t we call him again and see what happened?” John asked, trying and failing to smile.

 

“Already done. He checked out and went to South Dakota.”

 

John stood and crossed to the dresser. “What’s your next plan?”

 

Sherlock looked at the mirror so he could watch John’s expression. “I haven’t decided yet. It may depend on you.”

 

John turned and looked at him. “Me?”

 

“You’re my little helper, aren’t you?’ He gave John a flirtatious smile and winked at him.

 

John blushed and turned back to the dresser. Sherlock stood, leaving his drink on the desk. He stepped behind John and placed his hands on his hips. John jumped slightly then melted into Sherlock’s touch.

 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He leaned down and nibbled on John’s earlobe.

 

John moaned and pressed his arse backwards. “You are going to have to.”

 

“Unh uh.” Sherlock kissed John’s jaw.

 

“I have plans of my own you know.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be nice if my problems and your plans were somehow connected?” He lowered one of his hands and cupped John’s cock through his trousers. ‘Then we could stay close to each other from here on.”

 

John placed a hand over Sherlock’s and thrust up into Sherlock’s touch.

 

Sherlock undid John’s fly and reached inside to grip John’s cock. “I want to fuck you.”

 

John nodded and reached for the bag sitting on the dresser. With shaking hands, he opened it and pulled out his condoms and Vaseline. Sherlock pulled John’s shift over his head and undid John’s trousers, pulling them down with his pants. He grabbed the Vaseline and quickly opened John.

 

John leaned his weight forward and stuck his arse out to give Sherlock better access to him. As soon as Sherlock was able to fit three fingers inside John, he rolled the condom on and pushed inside.

 

John groaned and dropped his face into his arms on the dresser. “Slowly.” He panted.

 

Sherlock stilled and squeezed John’s hips. “Sorry, adrenaline.”

 

John nodded and adjusted his stance. “Okay.”

 

Sherlock took John quickly and firmly against the dresser, anger and adrenaline fueling his need. John may have betrayed him. As much as he wanted to trust the man under him, he knew John was hiding something from him. He squeezed hard enough to leave bruises and covered his shoulder in love bites. He wanted John to be his. Wanted to trust him, but he couldn’t, and that killed him.

 

John leaned back and let his head lean against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock looked down to see John take hold of his cock. He watched him jerk himself off, his cum painting the front of the dresser. As he came, John moaned Sherlock’s name and caught his eye. The sight sent Sherlock over the edge. He pulled John against him and came. They stood together, coming down from their orgasms. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s 

 

Sherlock was about to speak when the phone rang. “It can’t be for me.” Sherlock teased, stepping back from him.

 

John groaned and stepped out of his pants and trousers. He walked naked across the room and picked up the phone next to the bed. “Hello?” He paused to listen. “No, I’m not dressed yet.” He paused again and looked at the clock. “I’ll meet you there. What’s the address?” He picked up a pencil and jotted something down. “All right.” He paused and sighed. “I will, goodbye.”

 

“Business?” Sherlock slipped off the condom and tossed it. He located a tissue in the bag John had left on the dresser and wiped his cock off before redressing.

 

John sighed again. “Yes.”

 

“You don’t look very excited. Why don’t you cancel and we can stay here and have dinner together?”

 

John gave him a wistful smile. “I wish I could, but the event tonight is the reason I came to town. I can’t miss it.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

 

Sherlock crossed the room and looked at the pad of paper. He ran the pencil over it and the address John had written down appeared. When John came out of the bathroom, redressed, Sherlock was back at the desk holding his glass of water. 

 

John looked at him as if he wanted to say something. He crossed the room and knelt in front of Sherlock, taking Sherlock’s hand between both of his own. His expression turned desperate. “I want you to do me a favor, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock put the glass down and leaned towards him. “Name it.”

 

“I want you to leave, right now. Stay far away from me and don’t come near me again. I’m trouble, a plague, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

Sherlock saw the sincerity in John’s expression and knew what ever John was doing now, he was trying to protect him. He smiled at John and cupped his face with his free hand. “I can’t.”

 

John closed his eyes and nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at the glass of water he gave Sherlock earlier. “I have to go now, but I should be back in an hour. Why don’t you take a bath and, when I return, we’ll get room service?”

 

“Okay.”

 

John stood and stepped towards the dresser again. “Drink your water, you look dehydrated.”

 

Sherlock saw John watching him in the mirror on the dresser and pretended to drink his water. When John looked away, he tipped the glass and poured the water on the rug behind him. He pretended to get sleepy and slumped in the chair, letting the glass fall from his fingers onto the rug. Through half-closed eyes he watched John cross the room and pick the glass off the floor.

 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t have you following me.” He leaned forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

 

Sherlock listened to John finish getting ready and the door slamming shut behind him as he left. Sherlock stayed in his slumped-over position for several minutes before rising from the chair and following John.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock didn’t know what he had expected, but an art gallery was not it. In the window there was a sign announcing ‘Auction Tonight’. He pulled the notepaper from his pocket with the address written on it and double-checked to make sure he was at the right place. Sure he was in the right spot, he put the paper back in his pocket and stepped inside. The gallery looked empty at first glance, but he could hear voices. He followed the sound to a set of stairs and looked down them. There was a light on and he could hear the Auctioneer. He made his way down the steps carefully and found himself in a lavish room full of well-dressed people. 

 

He scanned the room, his eyes taking in everyone till they landed on John who was at the opposite side of the room standing with his hand at his waist. Sitting in a chair in front of him was the fake Lester Townsen. Leaning against a pillar was his helper, Moran.

 

Sherlock’s blood boiled. He had been tricked. John had been playing him the whole time. He crossed the room and stood in front of Townsen. “The three of you make quite the picture.” Sherlock refused to look at John. He didn’t want to see any look of hurt on his face.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Knight-”

 

Sherlock cut him off. “Before we start calling each other names, perhaps you could tell me yours?”

 

Townsen chuckled. “Up to this point you have been incredibly shrewd. What possessed you to come blundering in like this? Are you an art lover?”

 

“Let’s not play games.”

 

“Sherlock.” John whispered.

 

Sherlock looked at him and regretted it. John was looking at him desperately. He swallowed his feelings and turned back to Townsen, who had started bidding on a sculpture.

 

“Sold to Mr. Moriarty.”

 

Sherlock looked in the direction of the Auctioneer then back at man in front of him. “Moriary.” There was something familiar about it. For some reason an image of his brother appeared in his mind.

 

Moriarty smiled at him. “Next time you touch something of mine, try not to mark it.”

 

Sherlock glowered at him.

 

“How are you enjoying your latest role? You play so many: Madison Avenue executive, fugitive, and now jealous, wronged lover. What role will you play next?”

 

“What role do you have in mind? Corpse?”

 

Moriarty stood and stepped into Sherlock’s personal space. “I have a feeling you’ll play it perfectly.”

 

Sherlock looked over Moriarty’s head and saw an exit. He stepped away and made for it. He was a few steps away when he saw Moran waiting for him and turned, heading back the way he had come. He started up the steps when he felt a hand on his arm. He was pulled sideways behind a curtain. He couldn’t see who had him.

 

“Let go.” He growled.

 

A second hand grabbed him by his other arms and he was dragged towards a door. When it opened, he found himself in a back ally. The two men holding him walked him briskly towards the street. Sherlock tried to pull out of their grasp but they wouldn’t budge. They pushed him into a car and sat on each side of him. Trapped, he looked at the men and groaned. They were secret service. 

 

He didn’t bother looking where the car was going. It didn’t matter. In the span of twenty-four hours he had fallen in love and been betrayed. He held onto his anger, afraid that if he didn’t, he would think about how concerned John had looked when he had shown up at the gallery, or how John had tried to get him to run away. He refused to think John had been protecting him. It was easier to be angry.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock was led to a private plane by Secret Service Agents and shoved inside. He straightened his jacket and looked around. Towards the back of the plane he saw the top of a head and strode towards it. When he came around the seat and saw whom it was, he sighed and sat across from the man.

 

“I should have known you were involved. I’m surprised MI6 was able to spare you.”

 

Across from him, his brother Mycroft smiled. “Good to see you, brother mine. It’s been what, two years? Far too long.”

 

“Not nearly long enough in my opinion.” Sherlock paused and studied his brother. He’d put on weight since he’d last seen him. Too much fried food. “You do know I didn’t kill Lester Townsen?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Why didn’t you call off the man hunt?”

 

“We needed you to look guilty so the real agent could get away.”

 

“You were prepared to let me go to jail so your agent could escape?” Sherlock growled.

 

Mycroft just smiled. “We must all make sacrifices for the greater good at some point.”

 

“It seems I was paying your price!”

 

“I would have saved you in the end.”

 

Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up around his face and glowered. “Where are we going?”

 

“Rapid City, South Dakota.”

 

“What for?”

 

“It’s near Mt. Rushmore. Plus, its where Mr. Moriarty is heading.”

 

Sherlock sat up straight.

 

“A rather formidable gentleman, eh?” Mycroft teased. “He’s a man of many talents, one of them being an importer-exporter of government secrets.”

 

“Why haven’t you grabbed him?”

 

“He’d part of a much bigger web. We need to learn more about his organization first. He has a place near Mt. Rushmore. We think it’s his jumping off point to leave the county tomorrow night.”

 

“What about his obsession with Knight?”

 

“It’s not important.”

 

“Are you going to sacrifice your agent for the greater good?”

 

“Sherlock, there is no Mr. Knight.”

 

Sherlock mulled that over. The reason the staff of the hotel had never see the man. Why Moriarty didn’t know what Knight looked like. “You have him chasing a ghost.”

 

Mycroft smiled. “That’s where you come in.”

 

“You need me to play Knight.”

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

Sherlock looked out the window.

 

“I have something for you.”

 

Sherlock looked at his brother and saw he was holding out a file. He took it and read the name on the cover. ‘John Watson.” 

 

“I need you focused. Learn all you can and put him out of your mind.”

 

Sherlock took the file and retreated to the other side of the plane. 

 

John Watson was from a middle class family. His father was a drunk who died when John was twelve. It seemed his mother had been frail since she was young. She died when John was twenty. John’s only living family member was a sister who, like their father, drank. She had been in and out of hospitals for sexual deviancy since she turned eighteen. John had done well in school. Top ten percent of his class. He’d gone on to university to study medicine when his sister had had a breakdown and he had quit and joined up with the Army to pay for her treatment. He served two tours in Egypt before being shot and captured by the enemy. He was a prisoner of war for three months before being returned half-dead. The Army had flown him home to recover and ended up discharging him. He became aimless, unable to keep a steady job because of mental trauma. Moriarty prayed on his need for money to support his sister, as well as his addiction to danger by hiring him as a hired gun.

 

At the bottom of the page, there was a small handwritten note, ‘John Watson seems unaware of his employer’s criminal background and believes he is working for the British government’. Sherlock sighed and closed the file. Just when he was ready to write John Watson off as a criminal, he had proof that he was, in fact, a man of honor who believed he was fighting for a just cause. Why did it have to be so complicated?

 

Mycroft sat down in the seat opposite him. “Are you ready to play your role?”

 

Sherlock said nothing.

 

“Would it help if I told you it would help us protect John Watson?”

 

“Protect him from what?”

 

“Discovery.” Mycroft looked at him meaningfully.

 

“You said there was no Knight.”

 

“There isn’t. He’s a ghost for Moriarty to track while our real man goes unnoticed. I know you didn’t mean to, but I’m afraid you have put him in a most delicate situation, and much more than his life is at stake.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. When he opened them, he gave Mycroft a look of determination. “What do I need to do?”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock stood on the Mt. Rushmore observation deck pretending to look at it through binoculars mounted on a pedestal. Beside him on a bench Mycroft sat with his face buried in a newspaper.

 

“Suppose they don’t come?” Sherlock asked.

 

“They’ll come.”

 

Sherlock started pacing back and forth in front of his brother.

 

“We wouldn’t be in this position if you had been able to keep it in your pants. How Watson feels for you I have no idea, but it has caused Moriarty to doubt his loyalty. It was quiet obvious to him last night that Watson had become involved with you. It is now your responsibility to help us restore him to Moriarty’s good graces.”

 

“All right.” Sherlock growled. “But after tonight-“

 

“My blessings on you both.” Mycroft folded his paper and walked away, leaving Sherlock to mope on his own.

 

Sherlock paced a few more minutes before he noticed Moran arriving in a white Lincoln convertible. He pulling it into a parking space and got out to open a door. Sherlock watched as Moriarty, then John, exited. They made their way towards the Cafeteria building. Sherlock did the same. The room was half full with the late lunch crowd. He watched Moriarty enter from the opposite side of the room, trailed by John and Moran. Sherlock stepped out of the shadows and let them see him as he crossed to an empty table and sat down. Moran stood near the exit while John and Moriarty crossed to Sherlock’s table. Sherlock kept his eyes on Moriarty, refusing to even look at John. 

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knight.”

 

Moriarty pulled out a chair and sat. John started to follow suit.

 

“Not him.”

 

Sherlock pointed at John, still refusing to look at him.

 

Moriarty watched Sherlock for a minute then nodded. 

 

Sherlock waited until he was sure John had walked away before he leaned back in his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John in the gift shop talking to Mycroft.

 

“Were you surprised to get my call?” Sherlock pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

 

“Not at all.” He smiled at Sherlock as he had in the library the day they met. It made him look like a shark preparing to attack. “What drama are we here for today?”

 

“Suppose I were to tell you that I not only know the exact time you are leaving the country tonight, but the location as well as your ultimate destination.” He waited for Moriarty to react. When he didn’t, he continued. “How much are you willing to pay for me to do nothing about it?”

 

Moriarty’s smile got wider. “How much did you have in mind?”

 

Sherlock looked at the gift shop and took a long pull on his cigarette. Slowly he blew out the smoke. “I want Watson.”

 

Moriarty chuckled. “He got to you.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “A good fuck is hard to come by these days. I’ll scratch my itch, then pin the whole thing on him. Both of us walk away unblemished.”

 

“I’m curious, Mr. Knight. How did you make the observation that my loyalty to Mr. Watson might have deteriorated to the point that I would trade him for a little peace of mind?”

 

“I don’t observe, I deduce.”

 

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before Moriarty stood up and made his way to the gift shop. He took John by the arm and whispered something in his ear. John looked at Sherlock then back at Moriarty and shook his head. Together, they headed for the exit Moran was watching. Sherlock stood quickly and followed them. Moriarty was a step away from the exit. He had to stop him.

 

“Wait.” Sherlock called. He caught up with them just as Moran and Moriarty were stepping outside. Slowed down by his limp, John was a step behind them. Sherlock took hold of his arm and pulled him back into the building.

 

“Let go of me.” John snapped and tried to free his arm. 

 

Sherlock held tighter trying to pull him in the opposite direction. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pulled harder.

 

“Stay away from me!” John dug his heels into the ground trying to stop Sherlock. He managed to free his arm and pulled a gun out of the back of his trousers. He pointed the gun at Sherlock, a look of pure desperation on his face. “Get back!”

 

Sherlock lurched towards him. 

 

John fired, hitting him in the chest. 

 

Sherlock put his hand over the wound and took another step forward. John fired again and Sherlock collapsed. He listened to the panic above it. He just made out Moran’s voice yelling at John to run. Sherlock lay as still as possible and waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat in the back of the ambulance and wiped the fake blood off his shirt as best he could. He finally came to the conclusion that the shirt was ruined and quit. 

 

They were parked in wooden glen waiting for something, Mycroft wouldn’t say what. As a car pulled up, Sherlock got up from his seat and exited the ambulance. He could see the White Lincoln from earlier making its way through the trees. It stopped and John stepped out. Sherlock made his way towards him, not caring who was watching.

 

“Don’t be long.” He heard Mycroft call after him.

 

As soon as he rounded the car, he took John into his arms and hugged him as hard as he could. John hugged him back, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry.” John whispered.

 

“Nonsense. I’m the one who should apologize; I put you in a difficult situation.”

 

“I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.”

 

Sherlock leaned back so he could look at John. “It doesn’t matter.” He cupped John’s face with his hands and leaned into him. They pressed their lips together softly. When they pulled apart, they smiled at each other.

 

“Your death was quiet convincing. I nearly had a heart attack.”

 

“What happened, John? How did you get involved with someone like Moriarty?”

 

John sighed and took a step back. “When he found me, I was alone and depressed about being discharged from the army. I had a stack of debt and no way to pay it off. He told me I would be doing my part for Queen and country and I was desperate enough to believe him. He convicted me he was MI6 and the people I would be killing were a threat to our nation. I worked for him for two years, believing his lies before I got caught. Mr. Holmes, your brother told me the truth and gave me two options: go to jail for my crimes, or become a double agent. It was an easy choice.” He looked past Sherlock in the direction of the ambulance. “We’re out of time. I have to get back to the house and convince them I took the long way around.”

 

“Can’t we just stand here for a while longer?”

 

John gave him a sad smile. “Whose side are you on, Sherlock?”

 

“Yours.”

 

John smiled at him. He reached up and pulled Sherlock down, kissing him until they were both panting. “Then don’t undermine my resolve just when I need it most.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Then it’s off to the hospital for me and back to danger for you.”

 

John nodded.

 

“As soon as Moriarty takes off tonight, I’m going to undo my bandages and you and I are going to do a lot of apologizing to each other in private.” He winked at him.

 

John smiled. “I wish I could.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He hasn’t told you has he?”

 

“Told me what?”

 

“We have to go.” Mycroft called to them.

 

“Goodbye Sherlock.” John kissed him one more time, then climbed into the car and drove away.

 

Sherlock turned to his brother. “Told me what?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “He’s going with Moriarty tonight. Now that he’s a fugitive, Moriarty can’t refuse to take him along.”

 

“You promised.”

 

“There is more at stake than your love life, Sherlock.”

 

“You lied to me.”

 

“I needed your help. War is hell, Sherlock, even when it’s a cold one.”

 

“He won’t survive.”

 

“He knows that. We’ve estimated he will last six months. He’s ready to pay that price.”

 

“We’ll I’m not.”

 

Sherlock moved towards the ambulance. He would follow after John and make him see sense. He felt a jab in his right arm and looked to see Mycroft standing next to him holding a needle.

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, but I can’t have you ruining everything. Not when we have come this far.”

 

Sherlock tried to take a step but lost his balance. The world around him faded to black as he stumbled to his knees. The last sight he saw before his eyes closed was Mycroft looking down at him.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock sat in his hospital bed angrily smoking his cigarette. Since waking up, he had discovered his room was being guarded and there was no escape unless he wanted to jump out his fifth story window. He’s spent the last hour trying to escape and listening to the radio. The story about John shooting him was everywhere, just as Mycroft wanted. He was going to punch his brother when he saw him next.

 

The door opened and Mycroft stepped in holding a change of clothing. “I thought you might want something without fake blood on it to wear.

 

Sherlock scowled. 

 

Mycroft set the clothing down and stepped next to the bed. When Sherlock was sure he wasn’t expecting it, he punched him. Mycroft staggered back, holding his jaw. He glared at Sherlock and took a seat a few feet away from him. 

 

“Better?”

 

“Not by a long shot.”

 

“He’ll be gone inside of an hour. It’s best if you forget him.”

 

“Excuse me for having feelings. I know how much you loathe them.”

 

“They are a weakness.”

 

Sherlock got out of the bed and picked up the clothing Mycroft had brought him, changing out of the hospital gown. When he was dressed, he moved to the window and looked out, refusing to give his brother any attention.

 

“You will forget him and be better off in the long run.”

 

Silence.

 

“You’ve done very well through this. I could have a word with MI6. They’re always in need of new intelligent blood.

 

Silence.

 

Mycroft sighed. “You should rest. We’re putting you on a plane back to London tomorrow. Mummy is looking forward to seeing you.”

 

Sherlock listened to Mycroft leave and the sound of the door locking behind him. He checked his pockets to make sure he had all his things, then climbed through the window. While Mycroft had been blathering on, he had noticed that the ledge was just thick enough to walk on if he was carful. Now that he had his clothing, there was nothing to stop him. He walked along until he came to the next window. He was relieved to find it partially open. He silently raised it and climbed into the room.

 

A lamplight came on and Sherlock turned towards the bed where he saw a strapping young man with short black hair. The man looked him up and down and smiled. Sherlock groaned internally. If this had happened at any time in the past two years, he would have stayed. The man was clearly interested. But he had bigger fish to fry. With a regretful smile, Sherlock made his way to the door and into the hall.

 

\-----

 

Once he had escaped the hospital, it had been easy to catch a cab. He had seen Moriarty’s address in one of the files Mycroft hadn’t wanted him to see. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his absence was noticed. He just hoped it was enough of a head start to do what he needed to do. He had the driver pull up to a stonewall a mile away from the house and exited the cab. It would do him no good if he had come this far only to be spotted. He walked along the wall until he came to a set of iron gates. They were open just wide enough for him to squeeze through them. 

 

Sherlock made his way up to the house. The terrain was rocky and sloped sharply down to a level field with beams jutting out from one side into the ground. The house protruded out over the slope. In the field behind the house Sherlock could see a private runaway. He started up the slope, moving towards the side of the house. He could hear voices coming from the house above him. He glanced about and decided to climb one of the beams jutting out from the house. He climbed up until he was able to look down into the room he had heard the voices from.

 

He could see Moriarty standing by a large fireplace watching Moran talk on the phone. Moran covered the receiver and turned to look at Moriarty.

 

“Miss Alder would like to know if her job is done?”

 

“I have no more need of her.”

 

Moran conveyed this, then put his hand over the receiver again. “She wants to know where her girlfriend,” He paused and spoke into the phone before looking back up, “Kate is.”

 

Moriarty chuckled. “Tell her to go back to her flat. She will find her treasure returned to her soon. Oh, and do tell her to be more careful with her in the future. She wouldn’t want someone using her feelings against her… again.”

 

A moment later Moran hung up the phone. “I’ll go check on the plane.”

 

As he exited, John entered the room.

 

“Feeling better?” Moriarty asked, taking a seat on the sofa by the fire.

 

John nodded. “Much. Thank you for all you’re doing for me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

 

Moriarty smiled. “You need never fear again. Soon you and I will be off to a new life.”

 

Moran reentered the room. “Another ten minutes.”

 

“The bags?’

 

“Outside.”

 

“Runway lights?”

 

“Checked.” Moran paused then stepped farther into the room. “I wondered if I could have a few words of parting with you, sir.”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“In private?”

 

Moriarty glanced sharply at Moran.

 

“I’ll go get my bag.” John offered and headed for the stairs.

 

Moran watched him until he was out of sight and Moriarty watched Moran. 

 

“Well, Moran, how does one say farewell to one’s own right arm?”

 

Sherlock saw the light turn on in a window and then John appear. He was so distracted, he missed part of Moran and Moriarty’s conversation.

 

“You must have had your doubts. How well would you keep from him the true nature of our work or what this little treasure holds? A bellyful of microfilm.”

 

Sherlock watched Moran pat the statue he had seen them purchase at auction.

 

Moriarty scowled.

 

“Sometimes the truth is hard to except.”

 

“Nonsense.”

 

“You are blinded by your lust for him. He has made it so you can’t refuse to take him with you.”

 

“You are just jealous that I’ve moved on from you.”

 

Moran pulled out a gun and fired it point blank at Moriarty’s head. A moment passed and then Moriarty stepped back unharmed. 

 

“The gun he used to shoot Knight. I found it in his bag.”

 

Moriarty stared at him stunned.

 

“And I’m not jealous. You have your crushes, but you always come back to me. Besides, he was never going to let you have him. He knows the moment you do, you would get bored and kill him.”

 

A flash of anger crossed Moriarty’s face, then his face became a mask. “What a pity.”

 

John appeared at the top of the stairs. “I thought I heard a shot.”

 

“Yes, so did we. Must have been a car backfiring. Hurry up, it’s almost time to go.”

 

“In a moment.”

 

When John was gone, Moran stepped closer to Moriarty. “What’s the plan?”

 

“Watson and I will get on the plane. And you will meet me in a few days.”

 

“You’re not seriously taking him with you?”

 

“I am. But he won’t make it to Europe. He’ll be getting off much sooner. Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.”

 

Moran smiled.

 

Moriarty stepped into his personal space and kissed him hard. “See you soon.”

 

Sherlock looked up at the bedroom he’d seen John in before. The light was still on, meaning there was a chance he was still there. He started climbing up the side of the house to his room. Just as he reached the window, the light in the room turned off and John walked out. Sherlock carefully opened the window and climbed in. As quietly as he could, he crossed the room and out into the hallway. He followed the voices until he found himself looking down into the living room. He could see Moriarty pouring himself a drink and John standing near him.

 

In the distance he could hear the sound of a plane. He had moments at best to save John. He reached in his pocket, trying to find something to help him, and when his fingers closed around his matchbook, he pulled it out and looked at his initials. He recalled his conversation with John about them on the train. He took a pen from his pocket and opened the matchbook, writing a message. ‘They’re on to you. I’m in your room’. He closed it and looked back into living room. John was sat on the sofa with a coffee table in front of him.

 

Moran entered the room, distracting Moriarty. Sherlock took his chance and threw the matchbook. It landed in a bowel on the coffee table. John stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. Sherlock saw him recognize it. John looked around the room, then up where Sherlock stood. 

 

“Something wrong?” Moran asked.

 

“Nothing.” John pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

 

Sherlock watched John read the note. Watched the color drain from his face.

 

“I forgot my passport upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

 

Sherlock headed for John’s room. A minute later, John burst in. Sherlock reached for him, pulling him closer.

 

“Quick! We can make it through the window. There is a car downstairs.”

 

“You are going to ruin everything.” John snapped.

 

“Ruin? I’m saving your life. They know the shooting was fake.”

 

“How?”

 

“Moran found the gun you used. He showed it to Moriarty.”

 

“I don’t have the information yet.”

 

“There’s microfilm in the statue he bought.”

 

John’s eyes widened.

 

“Watson?” Moran called.

 

John pulled away and back towards the hall.

 

Sherlock stepped up behind him. “Don’t get on that plane. I’ll get the car.”

 

John disappeared back out into the hall. Sherlock climbed out the window and back down the side of the house. He was about to reach the car when he heard a voice call out to him.

 

“Stay where you are.” 

 

Sherlock turned and saw one of Moriarty’s henchmen pointing a gun at him. He didn’t have time for this. He ran for the car. The man fired two shots, just missing him. He got into the car and discovered the keys in the ignition. He started the car and drove towards the plane. He saw John break away from Moriarty, heading back towards the house carrying something in his arms. Sherlock pulled up alongside him and John jumped in. Moran was a step behind. He jerked on the car door, but John had locked it. Sherlock put the car in reverse and drove back towards the house.

 

“Are you alright? I heard shots.”

 

“I’m not hit.”

 

John let out a long sigh.

 

“You found the sculpture.”

 

“Yes.”

 

As they pulled up to the iron gates, Sherlock realized they were closed. He stopped the car and got out. He found them chained. He tugged on them for a moment but it was no use. He motioned for John to follow and the two ran off. They headed to what Sherlock hoped was a dense forest, but turned out to be no more than a shallow wooded area. The terrain was littered with rocks and fallen trees, making their progress slow, John was even slower, encumbered by his limp and the statue he carried.

 

Sherlock heard a crash behind him and turned to see John holding his hurt leg. He went back and helped him to his feet, picking up the statue so John had less to worry about. Through the trees he made out headlights. They were being followed. The car stopped, and Moran’s voice called out to them. Sherlock put his arm around John and hurried him along. They were almost out of the trees. 

 

When they broke free of the tree line, Sherlock realized they were on top of the monument. The presidents’ faces were fifty feet ahead of them. Sherlock looked around them. There was only one route of escape, and it was down the front of Mt. Rushmore. Sherlock took John’s hand and led him towards the edge of the monument. Behind them, Moran and Moriarty broke free from the tress.

 

“You can’t be serious?” John asked.

 

“Unfortunately I am.”

 

They slowly started their way down, aware that any wrong move could send them plummeting to a sure death. Sherlock glanced up and saw Moran making his way towards them.

 

“If we get out of this alive, let’s go back to London. I know a woman who will give us a deal on a flat right off Regent Park.”

 

“Is that a proposition?”

 

“A proposal.”

 

Sherlock looked over and saw John gaping at him.

 

“Why did you leave London in the first place?” John asked.

 

“I had a drug habit.”

 

“Won’t going back be dangerous?”

 

“Not if I have you with me. Besides, the reason I did drugs in the first place was because I was bored. I’ve decided to quit my advertising job and become a consulting detective.”

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“Of course you haven’t. I’m inventing the job.”

 

John laughed. “What will I be doing while you solve crimes?”

 

“I thought we could solve them together. That way we could feed your addiction while we starve mine.”

 

John was quiet for a long moment, then he nodded. “If we get out of this alive.”

 

They made their way slowly down Washington’s face to his shoulder. There were more foot holds here, aiding their decent. Sherlock glanced up and saw that Moran was gaining on them. A large rock tumbled down at Sherlock’s right and Sherlock looked up to see Moran struggling to keep hold. Sherlock turned his eyes back to his own work. Unbeknownst to him, Moran had caught up to them.

 

John shouted. “Look out.” 

 

Sherlock turned and saw Moran descending on him with a knife. Sherlock kicked out and Moran lost his footing. He slipped off the rocks and fell. Sherlock put his foot back into the foot hold and the rocks under his foot crumbled away. In his panic to cling to the wall, he dropped the statue.

 

Above him, a gun went off. He and John looked up and saw a group of people silhouetted with red light standing at the edge of the monument. Sherlock could just make out Mycroft peering down at him. He breathed a sigh of relief. He and John climbed until they found a ledge they could sit on. They pulled each other close and held on.

 

“It’s over,” John whispered.

 

Sherlock nodded. It was finally over.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock sat at the desk by the widow, holding the letter Mycroft had sent him with trepidation. The door to the flat opened and Sherlock heard John’s familiar voice call out to him.

 

“I said hello.”

 

Sherlock looked away from the letter and smiled. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

 

“Another letter from Mycroft?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Hand it over.” John walked across the living room with no signs of his limp. Since returning to England, Sherlock had deduced the limp was psychosomatic and had cured him of it.

 

John opened the letter and looked it over. “He says Moriarty is still refusing to talk. He thinks if you interrogated him it might change.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “He wants me to join MI6.”

 

John nodded.

 

“We got another letter.” He held up a letter with a New York postage stamp.

 

John opened it and looked it over. “Your lawyer married your assistant Molly.” He held up a picture of Molly standing next to Lestrade in a wedding dress. “I didn’t know your brother was on friendly terms with them.”

 

“Let me see.” Sherlock held his hand out. The photo John handed him was like the other one, except Mycroft was standing on Molly’s other side. He smirked. “It seems Molly decided she could share.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“My brother has been in love with Lestrade since they were at uni together. He hates complications, so he’s been denying himself what he really wants. It seems the three of them came to an arrangement.”

 

John took the photo back and stared at it. “You mean all three of them are in a relationship?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“I suppose stranger things have happened.” John took the photo and placed it on the mantel. 

 

Sherlock stood and put his arms around John’s waist and pulled him back against him. “I know we can’t have a ceremony, but why don’t we have a honeymoon?”

 

John looked at Sherlock in the mirror, “A sex holiday, as you call them.”

 

Sherlock kissed John behind his ear. “Two weeks on a river cruise. The two of us locked in our cabin, devouring each other.”

 

John shivered. “We could stay here and do that. Lock the flat and fuck.”

 

“Both.”

 

John laughed. 

 

Sherlock picked John up bridal style and carried him towards their bedroom. “I say we start right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this fic. i know it's taken me a while and there have been re-writes etc to deal with. my smut is what i am known for and what gets me likes but i love crossovers so i see work like this as being passion projects since they get less notes.
> 
> i hope people noticed all the little bits of cannon episodes i put in. i had so much fun dropping those moments into the story. see you next time!


End file.
